


Couples Counselling

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, M/M, Sherlock Being an Idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26787175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: In which Scotland Yard gives Sherlock wooing advice.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 23
Kudos: 205





	Couples Counselling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ensorcel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel/gifts).



> H A P P Y B I R T H D A Y ! ! !
> 
> Once again, here is me upholding our annual tradition. This year has been very different, to say the least, but I hope you still have a wonderful birthday, and here's to many more in the future.
> 
> Enjoy ^^

“I’m in love with John.”

The whole table fell silent.

Donovan spoke up first. “You’re just realizing this  _ now?” _

Situated at the head of the coffee table, Sherlock sniffed at her. “You should be happy about this; you’re going to win the department pool.”

“Wait, you knew about that?” Anderson said. “Hold on, is  _ this  _ why you called us here?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said primly. “To both.”

“You said this was an emergency meeting!”

“It is,” Sherlock said, levelling a warning look towards Anderson.

“Your  _ love life  _ is not an emergency!”

Donovan said, “Speak for yourself; this is Sherlock we’re talking about—”

“Wait,” Lestrade chimed in, eyebrows furrowed, “how could you know what the pool was for, and only  _ now  _ realize that you’re in love?”

“Can we focus?” Sherlock said. “I called you all here for advice.”

At that, all three of them fell to a silence. When Sherlock asked for advice, either the world was ending or, well—or he realized he’s in love with his flatmate and best friend.

Sherlock folded his hands on the coffee table and spoke evenly. “I understand that, often, I tend to misinterpret, or misinform, others when it comes to situations regarding emotional intelligence. Hence, I am seeking advice on the best way of informing John of my feelings.”

“Oh, honey,” Donovan said. “Nothing a candlelit dinner can’t fix.”

“They did that already,” Lestrade muttered to Donovan.

“Multiple times,” Anderson added.

“Every Sunday,” Sherlock concluded.

Donovan gave Sherlock an incredulous look. “And you’re sure he doesn’t know already?” 

Anderson snorted. “Are you kidding me? They’re practically married, they’re so deep in denial.” He turned to Sherlock with raised eyebrows. “Give him flowers.”

Donovan said, “What are you, twelve? Next time, why don’t you try saying  _ I was lost in your eyes,  _ too.”

Steadfastly, Anderson ignored her. “The language of love,” he said. “Works like a charm. Try yellow acacias—those stand for secret admiration of a friend.”

Across the table, Lestrade choked on his cup of tea.

“What’s wrong?” Anderson asked, reaching over to thump his back.

Wiping his mouth, Lestrade looked visibly shaken, from more than just the attempted Heimlich. “Mycroft sent me those last week,” he eked out.

“Ew,” Donovan said.

“What?  _ Mycroft  _ Mycroft? Creepy FBI umbrella guy?” Anderson asked.

“And you say I’m in denial,” Sherlock muttered.

-+-+-+-

“Sherlock? SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock calmly came down the stairs, face placid. “Yes, John?”

John pointed at the coffee table. “What the hell is this?”

Sherlock followed John’s finger until it landed on the accused object. “Why, John, those are flowers.”

“Flo—I  _ know  _ that,” John snapped. “I’m asking you  _ why  _ they’re here!”

Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock muttered, “That wasn’t what you asked the first time.”

“Well, it’s what I’m asking now,” John said in that dangerous tone of voice that meant he was going to go DEFCON 1 on Sherlock soon if he didn’t stop hassling him over the little things and got to the goddamn  _ point. _

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but subtly. He approached the coffee table, making a beeline towards the innocuous-looking vase of flowers set right in the middle, surrounded by test tubes, sugar packets, and an evidence bag containing a vial of poison and a human finger (he should really get to analyzing that before it rotted and Mrs. Hudson filed another threat).

John flinched as Sherlock picked up the bouquet, as if it were prone to exploding upon contact. “Don’t just—are you sure that’s safe?”

“Yellow acacias,” Sherlock intoned. “Blue violets. Red roses. Gardenias.” With each name, he raised a delicate finger to brush against the feather-soft petals; freshly-picked and sweet-smelling. 

“Okay,” John deadpanned. “What does that mean?”

“The language of flowers, John,” Sherlock said softly. “Admiration, infatuation, romance, and love.”

“Oookay,” John said again. “And what does  _ that  _ mean?”

Sherlock spared John a baleful glance. Slowly, he turned to face the other, and, very deliberately, he thrust them out towards John.

“They’re for you,” he said.

John blinked like a perturbed owl. And then blinked again.

“Why?” he said.

“I don’t know, John,” Sherlock said. “You tell me.”

Very, very carefully, as if it were a nuclear bomb or a grenade, John plucked the bouquet from Sherlock’s hand. He turned it around, studying it with the utmost reverence.

“Oh!” he said, face clearing.

Sherlock smiled.

“The Miller case!” John continued. “Jack Miller received flowers before his murder, right? The language of flowers! They might hold the key to finding the culprit!”

Sherlock stopped smiling.

“Come on!” John said, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist and tugging him towards the door. “This could be it!”

(Turns out, the flowers  _ did  _ help solve the case. Back in 221B, the bouquet remained in the centre of the coffee table, for one reason or the other, until the petals began to droop and wrinkle.)

-+-+-+-

“Eye contact,” Lestrade said triumphantly. 

“Oohhh,” Donovan said. “That’s a good one.”

Anderson scowled. “Everyone makes eye contact.”

“You’re just salty because flowers didn’t work,” Donovan shot back. Anderson grabbed a fallen petal from the table and chucked it at her.

“He’s right, as loathe as I am to admit it,” Sherlock said. “I do make eye contact with John daily.”

“Well, you see,” Lestrade said. “There’s eye contact, and then there’s  _ eye contact.” _

All around the table, Donovan and Anderson  _ ahh _ -ed and nodded and leaned back in their chairs.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

“First time I’ve heard that come from your mouth,” Donovan quipped.

“Be nice, the guy’s in love,” Anderson drawled.

“You two—settle down,” Lestrade said placatingly, before turning to Sherlock. “Okay, see— _ this  _ is eye contact.”

“I can see that,” Sherlock said, tamping down the exponentially-increasing urge for a nicotine patch.

“Yes, but  _ this—this  _ is  _ eye contact.” _

Sherlock was just about to open his mouth and declare the entire plan a dud and kick all three of the best of brightest from the department out of his flat, when Lestrade’s eyes sharpened.

They lowered, full-lidded. They peered up at Sherlock through fluttering lashes, dark and demure.

Sherlock recoiled so hard he nearly fell off his chair. 

“You see the difference?” Lestrade said calmly, reverting back to normal eye contact with a single blink as if nothing had just happened.

“What the  _ fuck  _ was that,” Anderson said flatly.

“I need to bleach my eyes,” Donovan said.

“You’re not telling me that actually works?” Sherlock said, still reeling from horror.

Lestrade shrugged, a wicked gleam coming to his eye. “Works on Mycroft.”

“Fuck my eyes—I need to bleach my  _ ears.” _

-+-+-+-

“And then, when I asked him if he was taking his painkillers, you know what he said?  _ No!  _ Bloody  _ no!  _ Well, Jesus, I really do wonder why you’re in so much  _ pain  _ when you’re not taking your bloody fucking  _ painkillers!” _

John paused to catch his breath, taking a sip of water and a forkful of homemade gnocchi that the two of them had attempted to cook together this evening. “This is really good,” he added, “we should save the recipe.”

“I did,” Sherlock said.

Humming, John took another bite, chewed, swallowed, then looked up at Sherlock, ready to continue his tirade of complaints about his day’s work—only to stop, blink, and stare.

Sherlock stared back.

“Um,” John said. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?” Sherlock said, his eyes not moving from John’s. They felt like two red-hot lasers. Or an EMT scan. John felt the back of his neck rise in goosebumps.

“You good?” he managed.

Sherlock tilted his head, still with that soul-piercing gaze of his. “Never been better,” he said, peering up through his lashes.

The goosebumps broke out tenfold, scattering down his spine like a hoard of skeletons. John cleared his throat, and, with great effort, broke free from the thousand-year stare to take another sip of water. When he looked back, Sherlock had not wavered, eyes boring into him like he was flaying his skin layer by layer like an onion.

“Aaand that’s enough,” John said. “Listen, uh, Sherlock—if I’ve done something wrong, you know you can tell me, right?”

Sherlock blinked for what seemed to be the first time since they’d sat down. “What do you mean?”

John shifted in his seat. “I mean, if you’re angry at me, you can tell me?”

“Why would I be angry at you?”

“Because you’re staring at me the way you stare at a dead body at the morgue before you whip it into oblivion?”

Sherlock’s blinks came rapidly, irregular like Morse code.

“Was it the poison on the coffee table?” John attempted, grasping at straws. “I told you, Sherlock, it’s a safety hazard.”

“I’m not mad at you,” Sherlock said.

“That’s… good,” John said, feeling like he was navigating this conversation like a minefield. “So why were you…”

“I was lost,” Sherlock blurted, suddenly looking like he’d just swallowed a lemon.

“What?” John said, feeling like he wasn’t only navigating a minefield, but was blindfolded at the same time. “Lost where? Do you have a concussion? Oh, Jesus, you slipped in the shower again, didn’t you?”

Sherlock took a very deep breath. Then, he dropped his eye contact—thank the  _ gods. _

“I was lost in thought,” he said curtly. “Nevermind.”

“Oh,” John said. “Well, why didn’t you just say so.”

“Why didn’t I,” Sherlock muttered.

-+-+-+-

“Listen, Sherlock,” Donovan said soothingly. “Lestrade and Anderson are idiots. I know what you need.”

Sherlock held his hands up against the other two at the table, who both gawped and glared at Donovan. “You’ve had your chances,” he said calmly. “Neither suggestions were successful. It’s Donovan’s turn.”

Donovan levelled a triumphant look at the rest of them. “You and John aren’t, well. How should I put this? You and John aren’t the  _ traditional  _ couple, in a sense. Flowers won’t work. And eye contact—I don’t know what Lestrade was doing, but you two already have goddamn eye  _ intercourse  _ every time you speak. Ratchet that any higher, and you’re bordering serial-killer levels.”

“Maybe you’ll indeed give a better suggestion than the others,” Sherlock murmured, eyes becoming more alert and focused.

Donovan smiled, smug. “Now, what you two need is physical contact.”

“Oh, not this again,” Anderson moaned. “She watches  _ one  _ Ted Talk on touch therapy, and it’s suddenly the cure for cancer.”

“Shut up, Anderson,” both Donovan and Sherlock replied at the same time.

“Casual touches,” Donovan said, with a confident nod. “A hand on the shoulder or a touch on the waist. Little things like that, just to show that you’re interested.”

“On the shoulder or on the waist,” Sherlock repeated.

“Exactly,” Donovan said happily.

“Hey, Lestrade?” Anderson piped up.

“Yeah?” Lestrade replied absently.

“Could you ask Mycroft for those secret 221B camera footages? I want to see John punch and tackle Sherlock to the ground for randomly groping his waist.”

Lestrade chortled.

-+-+-+-

When Sherlock came downstairs, John was already awake and sitting at the coffee table with a cup of steaming-hot tea and his daily paper clutched in his hands.

“Morning,” he said when he heard the telltale steps. “Tea’s on the counter.”

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, and approached the counter. Tea retrieved, he began to walk back to the coffee table—but before he sat down, he reached out a hand and let it settle on John’s shoulder, firm and steady.

John froze completely. “Uh, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?” Sherlock said. He squeezed John’s shoulder.

“Is something wrong?” John said. Sherlock could feel every single muscle in his shoulder tense up.

“No,” Sherlock said.

“Right,” John said, sounding strained. “Then could you, uh. I mean. Why are you.” His mouth flapped open and shut like a fish out of water.

From behind him where John couldn’t see, Sherlock raised his eyes up to the ceiling in a look of helplessness. “Just forget it, John,” he said, and dropped his hand. Immediately, all the tension drained away.

Sherlock pulled out his chair and sat down. He steepled his fingers under his chin, and gazed at a particularly-fascinating patch of air whilst keeping his peripheral vision on John.

John was wearing a cashmere sweater today. His hair was still slightly damp from his shower; if Sherlock leaned just a bit closer, he would be able to make out the distinct scent of the discount shampoo they both used, mingled with the conditioner Sherlock knew he stole.

“What’cha thinking about?” John said, turning another page in his paper.

“Why you still bother hiding the fact that you steal my conditioner when you know very well that both of us know,” Sherlock said.

John stilled. He lowered his paper enough to look at Sherlock with raised eyebrows. “Why didn’t you tell me that you knew, if you knew I knew?”

“If I knew you knew I knew, you mean,” Sherlock corrected, a smile playing on his lips.

John smirked. “You know what I mean,” he said.

Sherlock opened his mouth, fully ready to retort with a snarky comeback—but something about the way John was looking at him. Not  _ looking  _ looking (Sherlock knew the difference starkly, now, the experience still roiling in his stomach), but just—watching. Soft eyes, soft smile. It loosened something in Sherlock’s chest and knocked it horribly off-kilter.

“If I told you I knew,” Sherlock said, not feeling entirely in control of himself, “you would stop.”

John tilted his head. “And you don’t want me to stop?”

“No,” Sherlock said, falling, falling, and he couldn’t seem to press pause on his words. “Shampoo strips the oils in your hair; conditioner replenishes it. It’s a very important regimen in one’s shower routine.”

“Huh,” John said, after a long pause. “Well, in that case, we’re almost out of conditioner.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, smiling.

-+-+-+-

“What do you  _ mean,  _ it didn’t work?”

Anderson’s triumphant “Ha!” was drowned out by Lestrade’s “Goddamnit, Sherlock!”.

“I  _ mean,”  _ Sherlock said, “it didn’t  _ work.  _ Do I need to say it in Enochian?”

“Okay, okay, don’t get your panties in a twist,” Donovan muttered. “It’s not like our suggestions were  _ bad.” _

“They must have been, because none of them worked,” Sherlock said pointedly.

“I think that says something about  _ you,”  _ Anderson pointed out. “I mean, personally, I’ve tried out all three of those suggestions, to much success.”

“Oh, god, don’t  _ say  _ that,” Lestrade groaned. “I don’t want to imagine your  _ eye contact  _ eye contact.”

“Donovan wouldn’t need to imagine that,” Sherlock mumbled. Lestrade groaned louder.

“Maybe Donovan’s right, though. Maybe touching is the key,” Anderson pushed on. “But, y’know.  _ Not  _ on the shoulder or waist.”

“Jesus Christ, Anderson,” Donovan said.

“I think this entire table needs bleaching,” Lestrade said solemnly.

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” Anderson protested. “Maybe they’re past the flirting stage. You did say that they were practically married already, they just need to… consummate it.”

Lestrade patted down the coffee table. “Wasn’t there a vial of poison here a few days ago? Can we split that?”

“You three are useless,” Sherlock said.

“At least we get laid,” Donovan shot back.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “If it were from Anderson, I would rather get  _ buried.” _

“Maybe you need a  _ big  _ gesture,” Lestrade tried.

“John bloody  _ shot _ a guy for Sherlock!” Donovan said. “How do you top that?”

“The first day they met, no less,” Anderson added. “Seriously, how are you two  _ not  _ together yet?”

“I’m  _ trying  _ to rectify that,” Sherlock snapped, “except none of your useless suggestions have done anything!”

“Maybe just—tell him?” Lestrade said, mostly speaking to himself than anything.

Anderson turned to gape at him. “Are you kidding me? No!”

“You need to move slowly,” Donovan agreed. “You can’t just spring something like that on him!”

“Well, how  _ else  _ do I tell him, then!” Sherlock said, throwing his arms in the air.

“Tell who what?” John said, suddenly appearing out of nowhere at the doorstep. “What the hell are you three doing in our flat?”

All four members sitting at the coffee table simultaneously jumped, flinched, and cast silent, panicked looks at each other.

“John!” Anderson said first. “How… lovely to see you here.”

“Hello, Anderson,” John said. “I thought I smelled your cologne in here before.” He shucked off his coat, hanging it on the hook, without looking away from the guilty party. “I forgot my wallet.”

“It’s on your nightstand,” Sherlock offered.

“I know,” John said. “I’ll get it as soon as I find out why three of Scotland Yard’s best and brightest are sitting around my coffee table.”

“We were just, er, having a cup of tea,” Lestrade tried. “And, well. Talking.”

John raised a single eyebrow. “Talking?”

“You know,” Donovan said. “Local gossip.”

John pressed his lips together, his face a mask of  _ I’m not taking your bullshit. _

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock said. “You’re all ridiculous. I shouldn’t have asked any of you in the first place.” Pushing his chair back from the table, he stood up.

“Sherlock?” John said. “What’s happening?”

Sherlock waited until he was merely a pace away from John, until John needed to crane his neck a little to look at him.

“I’m in love with you,” Sherlock said, and bent down to kiss him.

There was a gasp, then silence, and then John made a little noise in his throat and his hands came up to bury themselves in Sherlock’s hair.

(“How the fuck did that work?” Anderson whispered to Donovan, who was staring with abject, speechless awe.

“It’s Sherlock,” Lestrade said, with the air of an exhausted father who just wanted to lay down and sleep. “It’s  _ John.  _ Of course that fucking works.”)

When Sherlock pulled away, it was to draw in the slightest of breaths. That curious glowing sensation in his stomach was pulsing happily.

John moved his hands down from Sherlock’s hair, wrapping them around his waist.

“Well, bloody hell, you should’ve just told me,” he murmured.

Sherlock smiled.


End file.
